


A Way With Words

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:17:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mohinder and Sylar are partnered up in the future. A car ride gets personal and intense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Way With Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written for brandinsbabe who requested, "a fic with a Mohinder/Sylar roadtrip that did not include Zane!Sylar."

“You never call me Gabriel.”

Startled by both the question and the shattering of silence they had fallen into, Mohinder takes his eyes off the road and glances at Sylar in the passenger seat, his head pressed against the window and his attention on the scenery blurring by.

“Where did that come from?” Mohinder asks and Sylar, his head still resting against the glass, turns his way. Mohinder looks back to the road.

“Partners for six months and you're the only one who still won't say it,” Sylar says, watching the intensity with which Mohinder's mind plays out its warring factions in the lines across his forehead, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the firm clench of his jaw and the way he fights to not look away from the road again. “We used to have much better conversations before.”

Mohinder scoffs, “When?”

“Before I found out my birthright.”

“When you were still going by the villainous creation of Sylar?” Mohinder rolls his eyes.

Sylar refuses to take the bait for a fight. Mohinder is deflecting, meaning there is something he does not want to say, but Sylar is appreciative enough for any exchange between them instead of the repetition of boring quiet and the same ten songs on the radio. “Yes.”

His deadpan delivery has the desired charge of forcing Mohinder's attention if only for two seconds back his way.

“I doubt we spoke any differently back then, before you were the prodigious son returned,” Mohinder lies, knowing full well that the excessive silences that have plagued this time of theirs together on the road are of a strange sort rooted in more personal sentiments.

As frustrated as he is by Mohinder's denial, the mere suggestion of being a Petrelli is a small victory for Sylar since Mohinder has steadfastly avoided the subject at every possible curve and turn. Mohinder's refusal to deal with the issue is so insistent that Sylar has come to think of himself as 'Sylar' when he is with him and 'Gabriel' when he is with everyone else.

Upon first hearing of his Petrelli lineage from Angela (and it was still odd thinking of her as his birth mother instead of Virginia), Sylar had been shocked, confused and excited by his new lot in life. Despite resistance, mostly from his brothers (another oddity to contemplate for someone who had lived his life as an only child), he had carefully ingratiated himself into the role he felt destined to always play.

So caught up had he been in his new life that Mohinder's presence at Pinehurst and then back at The Company had gone by nearly unnoticed. Now he wonders if it was self-preservation from the one person who not only _knew_ him from before but with whom he had felt an indescribable pull toward. Mohinder, as it turned out, had been through his own metamorphosis, one that had nearly ended his life and brought him closer to Sylar's past haunts than he could forgive himself for. Even when apart they seemed strangely in tune.

Being made partners had come as a surprise for both (he had heard Mohinder yelling from three floors away) but seeing Mohinder again had settled Sylar's nerves and he had enjoyed taunting him about his mad scientist experimentations during the early months of their work on the road. Still, there had been little payoff besides Mohinder's flustered humiliation. What Sylar had wanted was Mohinder's opinion on him being a Petrelli--biologically, genetically and emotionally speaking. Mohinder, in all of his brilliant stubbornness, refused to play the game. All that was left between them was silence.

Sylar furrows his brow and uses his mind to play with the radio. “You always had something to say before. Was losing your opinion one of the side effects of self-experimentation?”

Mohinder grumbles a groan. He should have known those two days without Sylar mentioning his scientific misadventure was too good to be true. At the time it had not felt like such a ludicrous decision. Then again, unlike a good scientist he had been driven by raw emotions, not objective reasoning. Happy enough to have survived and be given another chance, Mohinder tries not to dwell on the past, but Sylar's presence is a constant reminder; add in the newest, bewildering turn of events and Mohinder finds himself at a loss.

Uselessly he had hoped playing ignorant would move things along. He did not know if he could put yet another mind trip on the pyre of things Sylar's presence had altered in some way. The issue, however, was not going anywhere and, truth be told, the silences were beginning to make him feel stir crazy on long stretches of road.

The jump from one radio station to another, broken by milliseconds of static, grates his nerves. With his left hand still on the steering wheel he reaches with his right to physically counter Sylar's invisible adjustment of the stations. It turns into a mini battle for control that Mohinder refuses to lose.

“Sylar--would you give it a rest?” he says and puts more effort behind holding one of the buttons down so that another one won't override it. His lack of attention to driving causes the car to swerve dangerously into the right lane, nearly sideswiping another car if not for Sylar mentally turning the steering wheel and straightening them out.

Immediately Mohinder grips the wheel with both hands. Mad at his own inability to concentrate on two things at once, he ignores the belligerent honking from the other car. Sylar gives the other driver a stern look and with a small flick of his right index finger sends the other car lurching sideways, startling the driver, then lets it go on its own way. Amused at the power he houses he slips into a daydream until Mohinder speaks again.

“It's not so easy for me to think of you as a Petrelli. It's like you're asking me to flip a switch and I don't see that there is a difference from before or if there should be.”

Sylar is hit by an instinctive jab of disappointment over Mohinder's lack of awe. He expected (had hoped) for more, but he pushes ahead with a hint of animosity at the man who is still able to make him uneasy. “So I'll always be the imposter Zane Taylor for you.”

“Yes,” Mohinder says matter-of-factly. “And my father's killer. You'll always be the one who made the choice to take what was not yours at any cost.”

Mohinder breaks away from the road to meet Sylar's narrowing gaze then sets his sights forward again. Even without looking Mohinder can recall Sylar's darkening eyes in his mind. Sylar may like the act confrontation, but being put on defense turns him moody and reactive. Mohinder can feel the hostility building in the passenger seat and though he does take a small pleasure in getting under Sylar's skin his intent at this moment is not for a blow out.

Mohinder sighs. “You're also _patient zero_, the one person with the most extraordinary ability I've ever seen. And the one person who, for the briefest time, I truly believed in.”

As expected his confession releases the growing tension in Sylar's form. He drops his shoulders and once narrowed, blackened eyes, go wide, brightening just enough into brown. “Then why won't you call me Gabriel? It's who I was before.”

_Because it means too much to you_, Mohinder thinks. “Because you don't deserve it.”

Confused, Sylar shakes his head and says, “I don't deserve my own name?”

As Mohinder begins to explain, Sylar mutters, “Get ready for the lecture.”

Mohinder purses his lips at the dig then proceeds to make his point. “It's a name you gave up when it meant nothing more than a reminder of humble and unworthy beginnings. You abandoned it until someone--a stranger to you--gave it value. Suddenly now it matters.”

Sylar quickly stares at the window. Mohinder is half right, but looking at him induces a sensation of scrutiny so potentially intimate that Sylar needs to get himself together or risk striking out. _Gabriel_ always meant something but the name is entrenched with so many memories, good and bad, that reclaiming it is an act of brutal pride. He cannot explain the intricacies of a name he has yet to fully understand, least of all the struggle he encountered when he first met Mohinder, to pull the name (which had previously seen uneventful or hurtful disappointment) out of obscurity for the first taste of something good.

Sylar's lack of reply is all Mohinder needs. “Let me ask you, why is it so important for you to be a Petrelli?”

Sylar makes a face indicating that the answer is obvious but Mohinder's back and forth between him and the road with an expression of, _'I'm waiting,_' beckons an answer.

“You act like I'm trying to ignore my past. But you know from Chandra's notes that I always felt disconnected from my life and that something was missing. Finding out that I'm a Petrelli is more than a self-serving power grab, no matter what you may think. It's like painting in the missing colour that makes a picture complete.”

“But the picture was always there,” Mohinder argues, pulling at the wheel. “My father did not think highly of me--as you already know--and my life has had its share of ups and downs, secrets and lies. And yes, I was influenced by outside factors, but my life is mine--mistakes and all, no matter what. If I were told that my parents were not mine, biologically speaking, it would not change who I already am.”

“You're so enlightened,” Sylar says with attitude dripping off the words. “You would never be anything other than true to yourself. How profound. This sanctimonious act is wearing thin.”

“I'm simply trying to make the point that you shouldn't be so hung up on being a Petrelli.”

“But I am!” Sylar shifts in his seat to direct his annoyance at Mohinder. “My entire life was built up around a lie meant to keep me from reaching my full potential. Your father tried to keep you down too, with words like _fragile _and _weak_, with lies about your own reason for being born for the express purpose of saving someone else. But you refused to follow that lead and in the process you surpassed his accomplishments and exceeded his wildest expectations.”

Sylar leans forward and angles his head down, peering up at Mohinder with reasserted confidence. “Overcoming our past is what we do.”

“A Renaissance Man by way of the Petrelli family,” Mohinder places his left elbow awkwardly on the edge of the door by the closed window and tiredly rubs his temple.

“I like the sound of that,” Sylar grins slyly.

Mohinder hides a smile in tightly pressed lips. “Of course you do, it makes you sound important,” he says dropping his left hand to the wheel.

Keeping his eyes on Mohinder, Sylar leans back in his seat and watches. After a minute, Mohinder nervously eyes him.

“What is it?”

“It's…good to talk with you again.”

Mohinder wrinkles up his face. “Please, you have an entire family to talk with now.”

“It's not the same thing,” Sylar says looking across the backseat, out the rear window, and then settling back in the seat. “Nathan can't be bothered and Peter…well, it's just different.”

He catches Mohinder's flinch at the mention of Peter. The skittish glance that follows tells Sylar that Mohinder has noticed him noticing the reaction. Mohinder suddenly tenses and Sylar suspects he is waiting to be called out on it. Sylar would prefer for them to get to the point where they can talk within some realm of trust, an improvement upon past misdeeds. He waits.

“It's so strange thinking of you as brothers,” Mohinder eventually shares, very carefully wording his sentiments with both worry and interest that Sylar will read into what he is saying. “You both expressed such hatred for each other on more than one occasion, tried to kill each other a number of times, and now you've got this connection beyond blood. There is a similarity in your abilities that I should have noticed--but it's this indisputable bond.”

The words _connection_ and _bond_ flash in Sylar's mind. On the one hand he would not put it past Mohinder to subtly be teasing him about not being unique and having to share his mantle with someone as uncontrolled and emotional as Peter. On the other hand the words imply an element of overreaching envy--of Peter? Of sharing something very specific with someone else, something Mohinder was only privy to from a theoretical viewpoint as an outsider.

Mohinder sees Sylar smile to himself and knows he has understood the second meaning in his thoughts. He flushes; something he is unsure Sylar notices or not given his heightened powers, and stares straight ahead. He can throw as much attitude as he wishes against Sylar but he still relishes in the postulation that there is an understanding between he and Sylar untouched by anyone else, unrivalled, unbreakable. Is he this desperate for a true connection that he is willing to compromise himself with someone of Sylar's disturbed and unparalleled caliber? The question is rhetorical at best, prophetic at worse. Still it hangs between them waiting for an answer.

Sylar mulls over his response. Rubbing the fingers of his right hand along the leather of the doorframe where the window begins he says, “It's straightforward enough with Peter. He understands what I'm showing him relatively fast.”

“Exactly,” Mohinder says overenthusiastically and the sound of his false tone rings hollow to his ears. He reins it in. “He gets your ability. You don't have to spend your time explaining every single minute detail. It's an incredible connection.”

It is. Sylar knows that. He never thought he would ever meet someone who would understand how he worked on an ability level. Yet the reality is not as welcoming as it should be. Mohinder should know he is a much more selfish being. With all the abilities Sylar has acquired he can show their processes to Peter who in turn can make them his own. In the crossover, however, the powers lose their uniqueness and another unparalleled part of Sylar becomes common. Then Peter is off using them in his own way and it takes very little effort.

“I like explaining the details,” Sylar says, lost in thought.

“But it must be like layman's terms to you,” Mohinder contradicts. “With Peter you're speaking with an equal, like an advanced student who only needs one go over and can teach the class. With…well me, for instance, it must be a lesson in patience. No matter how much you walk me through it I'll still have questions.”

“I don't actually mind.”

“Really?”

“Why do you ask me a question but refuse to hear the answer?”

Mohinder raises an eyebrow and takes a deep breath. “Enlighten me, would you?”

“You appreciate it more than he does,” Sylar affirms.

Confusion knits the lines in Mohinder's face. “How is that?”

Sylar rests his gaze on him. “Peter can take it on fast enough that it becomes just another part of him. You're actually fascinated by the elemental details involved. It…awes you. You look at me and see something different and worthy of knowing.”

“I feed your ego,” Mohinder jokes, though he knows what Sylar is getting at.

“Yes,” Sylar says flatly with no apologies.

“Well that's lovely,” Mohinder says but loses the humorous edge when he notices Sylar looking away pensively. “What?”

Sylar does not look his way, choosing rather to stare at the dashboard instead. “With your theories you could talk to academics who would be impressed enough to regurgitate your ideas in mixed company. That's fine. But then you talk to someone who can follow your logic but doesn't know how to apply it himself. He asks all the right questions and can grasp some extent of how you put your theorems together, but his goal isn't to do it himself, it's to _see you _better. How does that make you _feel_?”

Sylar looks over at Mohinder who self-deprecates, “I doubt talking about my theories is as exciting as flying or time traveling.”

“For the sake of the argument pretend it is and answer the question.”

“I don't know.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I said I don't--,”

“Would you just answer the question?”

“I don't know--incredible. It would make me feel like I existed in a realm that no one else was part of.”

“Exactly.”

This time when they meet each other's gaze Mohinder is struck by the heaviness of Sylar's words and the worth being placed at his feet. It goes both ways. Mohinder could--has--placed that same commendation at Sylar's feet, the one person who comprehends his theories and looks at him with admiration for it, with appreciation.

“There is a flaw to your idea,” Mohinder says. “I did try to become like you.”

“A momentary lapse in intelligence,” Sylar smirks.

“A big one,” Mohinder mutters, all seriousness again.

Sylar scolds himself for unintentionally leading the conversation back to Mohinder's most recent wrongdoings. This is not the time for the condescension he would normally visit on Mohinder for measured entertainment. Swallowing regretful pride he says, “It's not as if I didn't give you a reason to want it.”

“Are you trying to take responsibility for my actions?” asks Mohinder, surprised.

“No,” is Sylar's somewhat jocular response. “I'm acknowledging that your 'Fly' inspired endeavors were not created in a vacuum.”

“Is that why you cured me?”

Mohinder's question goes unanswered as Sylar seems suddenly more interested in the car passing them on the right.

Sylar's willingness to see his part in Mohinder's recklessness is unexpected and Mohinder considers thanking him in a moment of confusion. But a handful of silenced seconds turns into a few minutes and soon they are settled into another one of their quieted sessions, except now there is not the stifling tension of before.

Sylar tries not to show agitation at the misuse of the word cure. If he had the ability he would have used it, but reality was far more complicated and he had only been able to kick start the healing process in Mohinder's mangled body. He regards it as a failure yet still tries to pass it off as a drawn out power move over Mohinder.

However, the mention of Mohinder's journey into darkness raises a question Sylar has considered for quite some time but could never think of a way to bring it up without sounding like he was spoiling for a fight. Even working together in incredibly close proximity, he has observed how careful Mohinder is in hiding his body, scarred and broken, from inspection. It only strokes the embers of his curiosity.

“Are your scars still healing?”

Mohinder agitates in a full body flinch at the question. He would prefer to ignore it but the trappings of the car would only make the rest of the drive impossible to survive. “Yes,” he says curtly.

Sylar eyes him for a moment and then telekinetically pushes up the jacket sleeve that covers Mohinder's right arm. Mohinder pulls his arm away, yanking it towards the window while protesting, “Don't.”

He has seen Sylar sizing him up with calculated interest since they both started crossing paths more regularly at The Company. It was easy enough to avoid until they were partnered up and then covering up was as much a part of his natural movement as breathing, so much so that the only times Mohinder saw his own body was in a locked bathroom and even then mostly when he showered. He could hardly bring himself to acknowledge the mutated reflection that stared back at him from the mirror. He imagined Sylar's interest was partly rooted in reminding him he was a screw up, always grasping for that which he would never reach.

“I've read the reports,” Sylar says. “And I've seen the firsthand documentation pictures. It's obviously not as bad as it was.”

“That doesn't mean I want to flaunt it or have it rubbed in my face.”

Sylar leans towards him and demands, “How long do you think you can hide it from me? Why are you being so resistant?”

As difficult as it is for Mohinder to admit weakness to Sylar it is made tougher by the fact that he respects Sylar's opinion on his work and feels shameful for what he did with it. He feels Sylar pushing at his sleeve again and jabs a quick glare his way. He doubts Sylar will risk an accident but now that he has it in his mind to view Mohinder's marked skin he will not let up either.

“You're like a child,” Mohinder chastises and Sylar murmurs a laugh, knowing he is going to get what he wants. “Take the wheel.”

Sylar holds the steering wheel in an invisible grip while Mohinder shrugs off his jacket and tosses it to the backseat. He rolls up his right sleeve, hesitant in his movements; then takes control of the wheel with his left hand and stretches out the right one to Sylar.

Lightly, Sylar takes Mohinder's arm in his hands. He trails his fingers along the skin, elbow to wrist, turning it in the process to inspect both sides. There are rough, dry patches the size of a quarter that speckles his skin like the squares on a checkerboard. At one time it had been moist and scaly. Sylar turns Mohinder's hand palm side up and drags his thumbs across the ridged surface. He switches to using his ring and index fingers to feel along Mohinder's, right to the tips.

“You got off easy,” Sylar says quietly.

Narrowing his eyes, Mohinder glances at him in disagreement. “That's not quite how I see it.”

Sylar says nothing, preferring to focus his attention on the hurt Mohinder accepted for himself, the affliction he suffered in trying to take control of a life seemingly out of his hands. He wonders how Mohinder never ceases to amaze him, refusing to let himself be written off.

Mohinder's concentration is diverted from the road by his growing awareness of the thoughtful attention Sylar is bestowing on him. He feels every pressure point and rub of skin and he can practically feel Sylar's breath on his arm from peering so close. Strangely he does not feel mad under the magnifying glass of Sylar's judgment. He feels cared for.

Reactively he tries to pull his arm free but Sylar, anticipating the move, tightens his grip.

“May I have my arm back?”

Sylar ignores him for a moment then lets go. He slouches down in his seat and places his right arm across the doorframe. Spreading his legs slightly he rests his left hand on his upper thigh and watches Mohinder. He has always found comfort in observing the man in motion or contemplation. It is as though he elicits a break in action for Sylar, a chance to rest before it is full steam ahead. Drawing attention to Mohinder's wounds, however, has reintroduced an element of unwanted attitude.

“You couldn't have stopped me.”

“So I shouldn't have bothered?” Mohinder asks, challenging the declaration.

“No, I like that you bothered,” Sylar says. “For all the good it did you.”

Mohinder knows he is going to regret not changing the subject or ignoring it all together but curiosity gets the better of him. “Meaning?”

Sylar waves the hand he has on his leg at Mohinder and back to himself before resting it again on his thigh. “I doubt this is something you ever had in mind.”

Mohinder glances out the window to his left and stretches wide his hands on the steering wheel, holding it in place with his thumbs then grips tightly. “Since the first time we traveled together ended so well.”

“Since we started working _with_ each other instead of in opposition.”

Mohinder considers Sylar's words. “Please do not make the mistake of thinking that this means we've turned over some new leaf.”

“Relax, I'm not suggesting we're a Hallmark card,” Sylar tones flatly and Mohinder shoots him a confused look. “Nothing's forgiven, I get it. The thing is--I'm not asking for it, from you or anyone else. I've come to terms with myself.”

“I don't even know what that means.” Mohinder makes a face.

“And you don't need to,” Sylar interrupts. “What we both know is that we're here because the way we work, the way we are, is _different_. There is no water under the bridge and there doesn't need to be.”

“That's quite the moving sermon coming from the man who has unapologetically caused the most harm,” Mohinder sternly reprimands.

“Careful Mohinder, you made a pretty good run at it.”

“And I regret how out of hand it got! But I can't take it back, so I have to keep moving forward--,”

Sylar suddenly bolts up and turns under the tightening seatbelt towards him. The abrupt movement causes Mohinder to jump. He feels his face being pulled away from the road to face Sylar. The car swerves but try as he might to look straight ahead Sylar won't let him.

Startled at the act of aggression and panicked at potential death by way of a car accident, Mohinder's eyes go wide and he shouts, “Sylar! Are you mad?”

But Sylar holds firm. He uses his mind to extend his grip on Mohinder to control the car. He can not only see the worried shallow breaths that pumps Mohinder's chest up and down but he can hear the blood rushing through his body and see the tense lines of his clenched jaw that strain underneath his skin. The faint hint of fear is in his eyes but more important is the resistant resolve that penetrates from his steady gaze.

Once Sylar knows he has Mohinder's undivided attention he says, “Did it ever occur to you why--given our past history--they put us together?”

“Punishment,” Mohinder manages to spit out.

“Still so stubborn,” Sylar smirks. “They trust us with each other.”

“Why is that?” Mohinder insists, although he already suspects the answer.

“Because they can't trust us with anybody else,” Sylar says.

It carries the sound of a childish riddle, however there is nothing innocent behind the words and their aggressive standoff reconfigures into a mutually understood truth. Ignoring it does no good and only works to muddle the purpose that has brought them together repeatedly.

“Eyes on the road,” Sylar says with a knowing smile and sits back in a relaxed position, gazing out the window.

Mohinder feels the car jerk and quickly takes back control, shaking his head and trying to refocus on driving. He could argue and continue the fight; try to push Sylar back on his heels. He could go for a weakness, draw Sylar in then hit him where it hurts simply to deliver some sort of payback. Risking a quick look to the side he sees Sylar looking pleased with himself.

It is in Mohinder's nature to question and challenge, to be open to the possibility of what if, and for so long he has walked that path alone, devastatingly at times. Having the same fight over again with himself and with Sylar is exhausting, especially when the outcome brings them to the same place. He recalls a saying his mother had quoted years before that had stuck itself somewhere in the back of his mind: _Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. _

Just what he needs: a damn moment of gray clarity.

Sylar yawns and reaches forward to manually change the radio station. A familiar song is nearly passed over, but Sylar catches it and turns back at the same time that Mohinder mindlessly says, “I like that song.”

Sylar turns up the volume and sits back.

Harmonized voices sing out from the speakers the story of a man searching for a new life only to be knocked down, but not out. Mohinder begins to sing under his breath and Sylar hums along.

Both keep their eyes forward.   
 


End file.
